


swingbreaks

by machiavellist



Series: le piaf [2]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Jack/Tooth!Bromance, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, bartender!AU, bartender!bennetts, jazzband!guardians, now with 200 percent more gay, pottymouths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machiavellist/pseuds/machiavellist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'“You’re back,” Jamie blinks, looking surprised as he pauses his wiping of the countertop.</p><p>Jack shrugs and says lamely, “The scotch was good.”</p><p>Jamie laughs a little at that. “It is, isn’t it?” He grins. “Glad you weren’t scared away by my terrible singing. You wouldn’t have known the taste of my Blood Maries. I’ve been told that they’re impeccable.”'</p><p>(Or, the one where Jack joins Thiana's jazz band to pay the bills and meets a really cute bartender at the place they play on Saturday evenings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	swingbreaks

**Author's Note:**

> People wanted it. Here I have it.
> 
> Beware of the homo. And the fluffiness.  
> This is actually the cutest thing I've ever written. I usually write depressing shit.
> 
> Apologies in advance for any inaccuracies pertaining to alcohol beverages, Russian words, and drunkard behavior.

**i.**

Jack receives a call from Thiana when he's cooking his quick, convenient, two-minute meal in the microwave.

"I've got a job for you," her light and sweet voice declares through the old static of his shitty landline telephone.

Jack sighs. "I'm all ears," he mutters, ripping the soggy lid off his instant ramen and listens.

**ii.**

"This is Jackson Frost," Thiana introduces to the band, staring warily at him. "He's the violinist I was talking about a few days ago, a friend from college, yeah? This is the team, Jack. Team, don't scare him away, okay?"

She pats him on the back reassuringly.

Jack does not feel reassured.

"He any good?" A tall, lanky blond guy in his late twenties with a harsh Australian accent leans over towards Jack. He inspects him closely with an unnervingly analytic stare, narrowing his eyes at his battered violin case.

Jack mutters under his breath, voice low and irritated at the Australian’s proximity, “Thirteen fucking years, what do you think?”

Australia looks up, eyes snapping to look at him with a hint of surprise. “What was that?”

“I’ve been playing for thirteen years,” he proclaims louder, clearing his throat. “In all due respect, please get out of my personal space, _Mister.”_

The Australian pulls his head back indignantly. “Gladly, _little boy,"_  he drones back, and Jack can already tell that he doesn’t like this Aussie douchebag.

A large, portly man laughs from a couch in the back of Thiana’s garage. “He cannot be shabby, if he has been playing for so long,” he booms with a rough, thickly Russian accented voice. “Boy has spunk. I like him. Show us what you got, kiddo. Know _In a Sentimental Mood?_ "

**iii.**

Jack plays. The band stares.

“Damn,” Thiana murmurs absentmindedly, “you told me you were good, but not _that_ good.”

The big Russian man chortles heartily. “See, I knew I would like the boy,” he acknowledges with a twinkle in his eye. “Felt it in my belly. Very nice, Jackie boy.”

A short, slightly chubby man, who hasn’t anything at all so far, nods vigorously and smiles warmly at Jack. Jack smiles back.

“Yeah, yeah, new kid’s decent, okay, move on,” the Australian bastard grumbles begrudgingly. He lifts the lid of a cooler next to the couch, scourging in the ice and pulling out a bottle of Budweiser. “Now, who wants a beer?”

Jack and Thiana get one bottle, Australian grabs two for himself, Short-guy refuses to drink the alcohol, and Russian-grandpa asks for vodka instead.

“Cheers to the new boy!” Russian-grandpa thrusts his mug of Skyy vodka in the air, nearly spilling the contents all over Jack, who quickly dodged out of the way warily.

“Huzzah!” Thiana cheers, and Short-guy grins widely, lifting his glass of orange juice.

“Hu-fucking-zzah,” Australian mutters, and pops the cap off his bottle and drinks.

**iv.**

"We're playing at Last Call this Saturday," Thiana mentions after Thursday's practice. She unscrews the cap off her unfinished beer from the day before and sips.

“Where?” Jack frowns, looking up from cleaning the rosin dust off his violin. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Are you serious?” Aster, the Australian bastard, squints at him. “Frost, it’s only like, the most famous bar in Burgess. Where the fuck have you been?”

Nick, the Russian grandpa, nods in agreement. “Yes,” he ponders, “they serve good vodka. Medovukha, not so much. But my _babushka_ made the best medovukha, yes. I have her recipe, but I cannot perfect it like she.” He sighs, awfully nostalgic. “I miss my _baba_.”

Thiana stares at the saxophonist. “What the hell is a medo-vodka?”

“Hell if I know,” Jack shrugs. Sandy, the short and mute drummer, shakes his head unknowingly as well.

“Medovukha,” Aster supplies, “It’s a honey-based drink, like mead.”

“And you know this how?” Jack sneers. “Oh, right. All of you Aussie bastards are drunkards, aren’t you all?”

“I do think you have the wrong race, you fucking idiot, it’s the Irish who-”

“Shut the hell up,” Thiana snaps, massaging her temples. “Anyway, Last Call is a bar we play at every Saturday during the late night and early morning hours for the hungover emo kids at 2 A.M, alright? They pay us good money, so don’t fuck up.”  
Jack rolls his eyes. “Ana, love, have you ever seen me fuck up a violin improvisation or solo, ever?”

“I have,” Aster the Little Aussie Shit accuses.

“Oh, have you? Name an instance, please. What do you know about solos and improv, anyway? You only play background noise.”

“I do not play background noise! I’m the fucking bassist! I play the most vital part of the song, bitch-”

Thiana groans and slaps a hand to her face.

Nick laughs.

**v.**

The band is backstage at 10:30 sharp.

“It’s showtime, baby,” Aster breathes, and then they step out into the limelight.

vi.

Jack doesn't admit it, but he is fucking nervous.

Granted, he apparently didn't need to admit anything to anyone, since Thiana squeezed his shoulder comfortingly and Nick gave him a little wink (Thank God Little Aussie Shit didn't notice, or Jack would never live it down), but nonetheless, he's got the butterflies in his gut and slightly shaking fingertips of anxiety and it feels ridiculous and stupid and _really fucking nervous._

And then he hears, _"They've got a violinist now?"_ from somewhere in the audience.

"Oh shit," he curses, "they've noticed me."

Aster snorts and rolls his eyes. "Kind of inevitable, don't you think? With that dump of the silvery, pitiful excuse for hair on your head."

"It's platinum blond, you whore," Jack hisses.

"What did you just call me, you little fuck?"

"Guys, please," Thiana sighs in exasperation, "not now, dammit. Aster, get over to your side of the stage. Jack, you're up front. Go do your thing, you'll be fine. You don't fuck up on solos, you said it yourself, yeah?" She smiles at him. "Strut your stuff, Frost."

The violinist stares out at the curious eyes of the audience intently on him.

"Damn it," Jack mumbles to himself, "here we fucking go."

He lifts his violin to his chin.

**vii.**

Jack plays for about ten minutes before his fingers start cramping up from way too many improvised cadenzas and arpeggios.  
"Shit," he whispers over to Nick after the fourth song, "I think I'm overdoing the ornaments on the improv. My fingers are starting to hurt like hell."

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Break time," he mouths to the rest of the band, gesturing to Jack.

"Break time?" Jack gets the chance to ask before Aussie Dipshit drags him offstage.

"Okay, _Jack-ass_ ," Aster starts, "when we say break time, Ana plays a few piano songs for you little greedy soloist self to pull your act together. Go get a drink or something. You have fifteen minutes."

"How considerate," Jack drawls. "We soloists have so much more work to do, especially compared to lazy shits who only play a few notes repeatedly."

Aster growls. "Listen to me, you disrespecting immature little-"

"Oh, so now I'm the immature one now-"

Sandy glares at them, effectively silencing them both.

“Whatever,” Jack grunts, “I’m getting some scotch. I need the alcohol. Let’s hope the drinks are as good as you say.”

**viii.**

The scotch happens to be fucking phenomenal. And the bartender happens to be really cute too.

Yeah, Jack thinks absentmindedly, I definitely need to come here often.

**ix.**

The bartender’s name is Jamie, and his little sister is Sophie. Jack likes them; they remind him of his sister and himself before Mom and his shitty father divorced and took her with him and disappeared off the face of the earth.

“You have pianist’s fingers,” Jack remarks without thinking as he takes Jamie’s hand and shakes it, admiring the structure of his hand. They remind him soft lullabies and gentle concertos.

“I do?”

“Yeah,” Jack breathes, “they’re...long and slender. Like a pianist’s.”

Sophie sniggers knowingly and Jack turns to her with a raised eyebrow. She raises one back in return.

“Thank you,” Jamie mumbles, dropping his hand to his side, “I guess. Uh.”

“You’re welcome,” Jack replies a little awkwardly, wondering if he’s coming on too strong. Changing subjects, he asks, “So, about that singing voice?”

Jamie’s expression morphs completely into one of horror. “Oh, God, why would you ever mention that, Sophie?”

“Oh, stop it,” Jack dismisses, “I bet you have a great singing voice.” And even if you suck, it wouldn’t matter to me. You’re cute anyway. “Don’t be modest, now.”

Jack watches the two siblings bicker with mild curiosity. Sophie says something about Jamie being the school’s best tenor and Jamie splutters and stutters, “Oh, my God. Please ignore everything she's saying. She's lying. My sister is a lying little piece of shit, aren’t you, Sophie?”

Sophie giggles like an old-fashioned villain. “No.”

“I’m going to trust your sister on this one,” Jack laughs, eager to hear Jamie sing now that he was supposedly dubbed “Best Tenor” in high school. “How about you sing something for me? A chorus, perhaps? Doesn’t have to be long.”

“But-”

“No buts,” Except yours. “Just sing me a lyric.”

“Yeah, Jamie. You did it all the time in high school, why not a little song now?”

“Uh.” Jamie hesitates. “Um. Er, okay. I guess,” he mumbles, voice decreasing into near inaudibility. “Name a song.”

“What can you sing?” Jack wonders out loud, musing if he should ask him to sing Coldplay or something else entirely.

“Almost everything,” Sophie replies smugly, “he has a three octave range.”

“Sophie, for the love of God, _shut up!”_

Jack’s jaw drops. “Three octaves? Wow, that’s impressive. Now I gotta hear you.” _Not like I didn’t have to hear your assuredly wonderful voice before. Because I did. Now I really have to._ “No turning back now.”

Jamie gulps, and Jack watches intently on how his Adam’s apple bobs slightly at the action, noticing the creamy skin of his neck. “Aw, shit,” the bartender says, literally backing up against the wall, as if feeling cornered by the both of them.

“Don’t be like that,” Jack offers in slight pity, “I bet you’re great. Like your sister said. One’s harshest critic is oneself, you know.”

“Yes,” Sophie agrees. “Yeah, what he said. Harshest critic. Yep.”

Jamie looks defeated. “...Okay, but what the hell do you want me to sing?”

“Sing your solo from senior year; I really liked that one,” Sophie suggests.

Jamie’s eyes dart toward him, obviously anxious. And then he shakes his head and groans, “Jesus, why am I doing this,” half to himself. He clears his throat.

Jack leans in, anticipating.

Jamie starts singing.

**x.**

Apparently Jamie’s solo from senior year was “To Build a Home” by The Cinematic Orchestra, which happens to be Jack’s favorite soundtrack song ever, and man, does Jamie sing it brilliantly.

Jack thinks that maybe he can fall a little in love with this bartender.

**xi.**

“Do your fingers still hurt?” Aster jabs jeeringly at Jack once he returns backstage with the other guys. “You poor child.”

Jack says nothing in return and looks at toward the audience, more specifically towards the bar, where Sophie laughs as Jamie pours drinks with a frustrated and flushed expression on his face.

Jack smiles a little. “Nah,” he mumbles, “I’m good.” He picks up his violin and bow gently from the table and walks out onto the stage.

Aster stares. “Wait,” he says suspiciously, “what happened to him? Why does he seem all post-coital happy now? Did he get a blowjob or something?”

Sandy looks scandalized and Nick looks thoughtful. “Possible,” the hefty Russian man admits, “the boy is very handsome.” He cackles. “What, you disappointed that he’s not arguing with you, boy?”

Aster scrunches his face up. “Hell no. I’m just wondering why he doesn’t snap back like he usually does, that’s all. Maybe he had too much scotch. Or he got a quickie or something.”

Jack turns around and beckons them to get onstage. “Hurry up, you three! Especially you, Aussie shit.”

Aster narrows his eyes. “Watch it, Frostbite. I’m your senior; you should respect me.”

“Senior, more like _senile_.”

Sandy sighs and shakes his head.

**xii.**

“So,” Thiana says as she drives Jack back to his apartment at 2:30 A.M after the performance.

Jack, who was looking out the car window, watching the occasional car speed by, turns to face the pianist. “So?”

“What did you think?” she continues, with a small smile on her face. “You seemed to like it well enough, after the little break.”

“Oh.” Jack blinks. “Yeah, it was good. I wouldn’t mind playing there again.”

“Because you like it there, or something else?”

Jack doesn’t get the hint at first. “Something else? What the hell do you mean?”

Thiana rolls her eyes, sighs, gives him a look that stated, _“I-know-exactly-what-you’re-up-to,”_  which made Jack feel slightly nervous. “Don’t give me that,” she scolded lightly, “you know exactly what I mean. You have that look on your face.” She stops at a red light.

“Which...look?”

“The look that you get when you're like...oh, I don't know, kind of...nostalgic about something? Or when you really like and you're satisfied with something, I don't know. It's hard to explain. You get the same look when you talk about your sister. And when you drink chai lattes." The edges of her lips curl a little and Jack is reminded about how close they used to be back in college, and how they used to meet up at the coffee shop after lectures and check out the baristas. "So who's the lucky girl? Or guy, I never did pin down your sexuality."

Jack chokes. "I don't know how the hell you knew that, but okay, yeah, you're right," he grumbles begrudgingly.

"Women's intellect," she replies back vaguely with a smile on her face, pressing on the gas as the light turns green. "Now spill. Who?"

"Jesus, Ana," he says exasperatedly, "I can never could hide any secret from you, can I?" Jack exhales. "Okay, you know the bartender?"

Thiana frowns. "Jack, there were, like, five. You're going to have to be more specific than that."

"Really? I...huh." He thinks about it. The only ones he noticed were Jamie and his sister. "Anyway, he's - I'm bisexual by the way - brunette, cute nose, a bit shorter than me, sort of skinny, and has a sister who works there too?"

Thiana blinks for a second, and then her face flashes with recognition and she whips her head around to look directly at Jack, nearly crashing into the car in front of them before veering out of the way. _"Jamie Bennett?"_

Jack winces. "Eyes on the road, Ana."

Thiana sputters a little, which Jack has never seen her do. "As in the son of the owner of Last Call? With a really cute blonde sister?"

"Uh, I guess? Why?"

Thiana gapes at him unbelievingly. “Jack, love,” she then sighs, “could you have picked a gayer guy to crush on?”

“What?” Jack frowns. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Sometimes I wonder about you,” Thiana mutters lowly like the absolutely wonderful friend she is. “Jamie Bennett is the hands-down most homosexual kid in the town of Burgess. Unfortunately, he’s pretty adorable too, so he crushed a heart or two when he came out. He also pissed some girls off.”

“He what.”

Thiana rolls her eyes. “Our little town is rather filled with to the brim with extremely bigoted conservative homophobes. Either them, or closeted LGBTQs. Someone as blatantly out of the closet like Jamie is quite a shocker to the homophobic majority that believe only in the heteronormativity.”

Jack grimaces. “Ana, I didn’t know half of the words you just said.”

“All the time we spent studying English in college, wasted,” the pianist reprimands mockingly. “Anyway, yeah, if you get caught seen out with him, you might get a little more drama than you bargained for.”

“Drama,” Jack swore, “great, just what I fucking need.”

Thiana places a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. “Sorry, Jack,” she muses, “life’s tough. You don’t always get to screw everyone you want to. Anyway, here’s your stop. Practice tomorrow at eleven, yeah?”

Jack hums. “Yeah,” he murmurs, and falls silent. He opens the car door but hesitates. “You know, I missed this,” he says quietly, and then smirks. “You and your somewhat simultaneously shitty and useful advice.”

Thiana looks indignant for a second. “My advice is not shitty.”

Jack grins. “Yeah, you’re right,” he agrees, stepping out of the car, "It's fucking horrible."

**xiii.**

The next time Jack visits Last Call is on a Tuesday night after practice.

“You’re back,” Jamie blinks, looking surprised as he pauses his wiping of the countertop.

Jack shrugs and says lamely, “The scotch was good.”

Jamie laughs a little at that. “It is, isn’t it?” He grins. “Glad you weren’t scared away by my terrible singing. You wouldn’t have known the taste of my Blood Maries. I’ve been told that they’re impeccable.”

“What?” Jack frowns. “Your singing isn’t terrible. It’s nice. You have a,” he hesitates, about to say _‘lovely’_   but then realizing how effeminate it sounded, “very melodically precise voice. I liked your singing.”

Jack inwardly cringes at how idiotic and insincere that sounded.

“Uh, thanks,” Jamie mumbles awkwardly, fidgeting with the strings of the cloth he was holding.

“...okay, no, that sounded really stupid, I’m sorry,” Jack apologizes hastily, “but you really do have a nice voice. You deserve that Best Tenor title.”

Jamie splutters and turns red. “I take it that you want the Bloody Mary, then,” he mumbles, pulling a cocktail shaker out of a cabinet, avoiding Jack’s gaze.

“Hey, look who it is!” a chipper and high voice declares. Jamie groans and Jack laughs a little at his obvious distress at Sophie’s arrival. “My favorite violinist.”

“Oh, God, Sophie, go away before you embarrass me again,” Jamie groans, tossing the cloth to the side.

Jack smirks. “Hi, Sophie,” he greets. "What have you been up to on this fine night?"

"Harassing my dear brother," she replies happily. "It's quite fun; would you like to join?"

Jamie’s shoulders jerk up and he jolts visibly. “Sophie!” Jamie hisses.

“Wouldn’t be nice to team up on him, don’t you think?” Jack purrs slyly, glancing over at a flustered Jamie, all fidgeting fingers and twitching eyebrows and hard glares at the ground.

“Please stop,” he groans, dumping ice into the shaker and capping it, rattling the mixer with an unnecessary force.

“Now, where would be the fun in that?” Sophie coos, winking at Jack playfully.

Jamie grumbles, “Sadistic bitch,” lowly under his breath as he pours the Bloody Mary into a glass and pushes it toward Jack.

She winks. “You know it, babe.”

**xiv.**

"Jamie, babycakes," Sophie drawls after Jack had way too much whiskey and gets effectively hammered on Thursday night, "I must speak with our dear violinist Jack."

Jamie raises a questioning eyebrow. Jack frowns slowly and tilts his head to the side questioningly. "What."

Sophie sighs. "You're smashed, honey," she informs him frankly, and grabs Jack’s wrist, hauling him up from the chair with surprising strength. “Be back in a few, darlin’,” she address Jamie with a toothy grin on her face.

Jack lets himself be dragged by the hand all the way to the back of the bar, where the bathrooms are, muttering, “Where are we going?” as he stumbles back and forth, obviously tipsy.

Sophie rolls her eyes. “A little bit of scotch shouldn’t get you that drunk,” she jeers playfully. But then she suddenly drops her smile and her face turns serious. “Time to get down to business. You realize you’re leading Jamie on, right?”

Jack blinks hazily. “What?”

“Oh, for the love of-” Sophie snatches a half-empty glass of water from a nearby table and splashes the contents all over Jack’s face.

Jack splutters. _“Holy fucking Jesus,”_ he hisses, a little more sober now, rubbing his eyes.

Sophie stands there with her arms crossed. “Not as pissed-drunk now,” she nods, clearly proud of her work. “Anyway. You’re leading my brother on, with the flirting and not-so-subtle glances and all that.” She purses her lips. “You know he’s practically the only out guy around here. So this better not be a joke.”

“Wait, what?” Jack asks. “I’m what?”

“...Are you really that drunk?”

“No, it’s just,” Jack starts. “I didn’t realize I was that obvious,” he utters, too out of it to think up a better response other than the truth. “Didn’t think he was interested,” he slurs, wavering a little on his feet.

Sophie’s hand shoots out to steady him. “Easy there, pretty boy,” she chides. “And you’re as transparent as glass, dude. You thought he wasn’t interested?” Sophie clucks and shakes her head. “Someone as easy on the eyes as you is, like, a supreme weakness for a gay guy like him. Of course he’s interested. How oblivious can you get?”

Jack shrugs.

“Alright, I’m done here,” Sophie finishes, “You can go back and keep...drinking, I guess. Though I’m not sure you really should.” She eyes Jack warily. “Oh, and Jack?”

“Huh?”

“If you break his heart, I will break your pretty face, I promise. And I don’t make empty promises.”

“I, uh, good to know,” Jack mutters.

**xv.**

“What did she say to you? Oh, God, don’t tell me. It’s probably something extremely embarrassing and it’ll probably make me want to die, right?” Jamie jabbers when Jack walks (stumbles, actually) back to the bar.

“No, uh,” Jack mumbles, downing another shot, “nah, she just gave me...advice.”

 _“Advice?”_   Jamie visibly panics a little. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus, have mercy on me and kill me now, please. What did I do to deserve such humiliation?”

Jack smiles a little at Jamie's freakout. "Oh, it wasn't anything bad," he mentions, blinking hard to keep himself awake. "Just to not...uh...what was it? Lead you on, yeah," he babbles in a drunken haze.

Jamie goes as white as a sheet and tenses.

"I'm not, you know," he blurts out, "leading you on, I mean. Yeah. You're being led to the right place. Did that make sense? Eh, I'm too drunk for this pining bullshit."

Jamie is quiet for a second. "Pining?" he asks eventually in a minute voice.

"Yeah," Jack agrees sullenly, "pining. You have a really fucking adorable ass, by the way."

Jamie's cheeks flare up. "Uh," he stutters. "...you've definitely had way too much alcohol today."

"Yes, he definitely has," Sophie suddenly says, popping out of absolutely nowhere. "Perhaps you should drive him home, Jamie. I'll take care of the bar for a few."

Jamie opens his mouth as if to interject, but then shuts up promptly as Sophie gives him a pointed look.

"Okay, I may be drunk, but I'm not that drunk," Jack whines, standing up abruptly and quaking on his feet. Jamie reaches out to support him almost instinctively.

Sophie raises an eyebrow. "You were saying, babe?" she chuckles. "Anyways, Jamie, make sure he gets home okay. Off you go, now."

Jamie sighs and begins dragging Jack out of the bar.

**xvi.**

“Your sister terrifies me,” Jack states bluntly while sprawled in the passenger seat of Jamie’s Prius.

Jamie sighs. “She honestly terrifies everyone. You said you lived on Overland Avenue, right?”

“Yeah,” Jack slurs back. And then he adds, “She said somethin’ like, breaking my face if I break your heart. Or somethin’.”

The bartender grips the steering wheel tighter as he veers to the right. “Oh, did she.”

“Mhm,” Jack hums, “but I would never do that. Break your heart, I mean. But there wouldn’t be anything to break because you’re not interested,” he sighs, not even realizing the words were coming out of his mouth. “Even though your sister says you are.”  
Jamie is quiet for a minute or two. Jack almost falls asleep when suddenly he mutters, “But what if I am interested?”

“Then I would think it’s a pity date,” Jack babbles, “and I don’t like pity dates.”

“What if I, uh, asked you out for coffee? Would you still think its a pity date?”

Jack slumps over and rolls his head slowly to the left to look at Jamie. The driver was avoiding his eyes. “No,” he mumbles with a smile on his face. “Though, I won’t guarantee that I would remember tomorrow since I get the worst hangovers ever. Maybe if you texted me a reminder, yeah? Oh, here’s my apartment.”

Jamie blinks. “Wait, really?” he asks, car skidding to a stop. “...oh. Oh.” A smile slowly stretches across his face.

“Yeah, oh,” Jack smirks, pulling his small flip cell phone out of his pocket and handing it to Jamie. “Put your goddamn number in.”

Jack laughs a little. “Give that,” he demands lightly, reaching over and tugging the phone out of Jack’s hands. He flips it open, punching in his phone number with little bleeping noises.

“Okay, so, I texted my own number so I would get yours,” Jamie says, handing the phone to a half-asleep Jack. “...you need help getting up to your apartment, I presume?”

“Jamie, I’m drunk as fuck. What do you think?”

“...Point.”

**xvii.**

“Oh, God, I am never drinking that much ever again,” Jack groans into his cell phone when he wakes up at two in the afternoon with a murderous hangover, complete with pounding headaches and occasional trips to the bathroom to regurgitate alcohol.

Thiana's melodious laughter crackles through his shitty, free-with-prepaid-plan mobile."Your fault for letting yourself be persuaded into drinking so much," she reprimands lightly. And then pauses. "...how the hell did you get home?"

"Oh, uh," Jack thinks for a second, and then the realization dawns upon him that - "Oh, shit, I think Jamie drove me home. And -" He trails off, slowly starting to remember the events that occurred the previous night.

"...And?"

"...I think Sophie gave me the overprotective sister talk," he recalls slowly, "and I think I said something about pining over him. Uh."

Thiana snorts lightly from the other side. "So?"

"I think I also said his ass was fucking adorable," he groans. "What the fuck is my life."

Thiana bursts out laughing.

"This is not funny, Ana! This is-" Jack cuts off abruptly when his phone buzzes violently against his ear. "...I think he got my number, too."

"Let me guess, he just texted you." Jack could pretty much hear Thiana rolling her eyes.

"...I haven't checked, but probably. The only people who text me are you and my mom on holidays, anyway."

Thiana makes a clucking noise that simultaneously pitied him and scolded him. "Jack, that's actually a little depressing."

"Yeah, trust me, I realized," Jack grumbles begrudgingly. "Okay, Ana. I'm going to uh, be more social. Yeah."

"Code for _'going out with Jamie,'_ got it," Thiana huffs. "You guys are probably going to go out for coffee or something."

Jack's jaw goes slack. "Wait, how did you-"

"Wait, actually? A café? Could you be any less original, Jack? Way to be cliché. I'm legitimately disappointed."

"Clichés are cliché for a reason," Jack defends weakly. "Also, he suggested it, not me."

Thiana's voice suddenly drops down to a lower, more serious tone. “Remember what I said, Jack. People will give you hell for being a gay couple, you know that.”

Jack sighs and picks at the strands on the sleeve of his old purple hoodie. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good. Just as long as you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Yeah. I guess,” Jack mutters nervously, not really knowing what he’s getting himself into but agreeing anyway.

“Alright, Jack,” Thiana teases, “go text your boyfriend, now. Oh, and get me a macchiato and bring to practice, okay? Thanks!”

She hangs up.

"Bitch," Jack groans and opens up his message inbox.

**xviii.**

**Hey, it’s Jamie. Remember anything? You probably have a killer hangover.**

_oh my god yeah i have a terrible hangover :( shit how much did i drink last night? but i do remember the coffee date if that’s what you’re asking (;_

**You drank five glasses of scotch, three of whiskey, and more Bloody Maries than I can possibly keep track of. Caffe Roma at four?**

_we’re going to get coffee in the afternoon?_

**...Oh wait, that is really weird, isn’t it? Should we just wait until tomorrow instead or...?**

_no no no, its fine (: caffe roma at four it is_

**Alright then, see you there!**

_see ya (:_

Jack snaps his phone shut and smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is another Parov Stelar song.
> 
> This fic was written in a different style than the other one. I personally like this one better but merf, whatever. 
> 
> Beta'd by pipevine swallowtail. Any errors are mine.


End file.
